


A Good Reference

by st1nkf1nger



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, This features a she/her reader, Use of gendered nicknames (sweet girl)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:13:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23180740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st1nkf1nger/pseuds/st1nkf1nger
Summary: In your chambers within Skyhold, you sit sketching away but find yourself struggling. What you need is a good reference. Enter one Varric Tethras. Sexy shenanigans ensue.
Relationships: Varric Tethras/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	A Good Reference

Bent over the table with your tongue between your teeth, you drag the tip of the charcoal pencil across the parchment with steady, swift strokes. In the soft glow of the candlelight in your chambers, the illustration you’re diligently working on begins to take shape. Sitting back a little, you tilt your head from side to side, admiring your handiwork. Oh, if _only_ you had a proper reference. It can be difficult to find a willing model. The Bull, you have learned, is _always_ ready to disrobe and pose at a moment’s notice, but he’s not exactly the body type you’re looking for. Dorian is too thin and lean. Cole and Solas are much the same. Cullen’s _closer_ , but… he would blush himself to death if you asked. Blackwall _might_ be willing, but he’s just so intimidating! _You’d_ blush yourself to death if you asked. 

That only leaves…

“Hey, sweetheart,” says a raspy voice from behind you, right in your ear. Whirling in your chair so fast you almost topple over, you draw in a startled gasp to see Varric standing very close behind you. Smirking that insufferably smug smirk, he reaches around your shoulder to pick up the parchment you’ve been sketching on. You make a move to snatch it back, but he shoots you a playfully reproachful look and holds it just out of your reach. It doesn’t even occur to you that all you’d have to do to retrieve it is stand up. Varric has a way of befuddling you like no one else.

You flush when his brows lift in impressed surprise as he inspects the drawing. 

“Not bad,” says Varric, passing the parchment back to you. “Needs some tweaking though. Maybe a good reference?”

“Yes, but no one fits the proportions. Solas and Cole and Dorian are all too -- _what in the name of Andraste are you doing?”_

Varric smirk blossoms into a lazy smile as he shrugs out of his leather duster and hangs it from the back of your chair. “You need a reference, and I’m the only one that fits the shape, right?” he asks, arching a thick brow while his fingers work loose the knot in his sash. The silky fabric flutters to the floor, which is utterly fucking indecent somehow.

“Well, yes but… _oh shit…_ ” you whisper, flushing an even deeper crimson as he lifts the red tunic over his head and tosses it aside. Stocky and muscled with just a hint of chub around his belly, Varric Tethras stands shirtless before you with his hands on his hips, watching you with that damnable smirk on his lips. _Maker’s breath, but the chest hair…_ Helplessly, your gaze follows the trail of auburn curls down his chest, past his navel, and when your eyes reach the waistband of his trousers where the trail leads, you bite your lower lip distractedly.

Your gaze snaps back to his face when he clears his throat.

“Well, madam artiste? I await your directions. So direct me.” 

There’s a silent challenge in his tawny eyes, and your imagination is grabbing your hand and yanking you down a _very_ scandalous alleyway. It takes your brain a moment to collect itself. Getting out of your chair, you collect your loose parchment and papers and cross the room to your desk -- a better vantage point to view the bed on which he’d recline, but you never make it that far.

In the blink of an eye, Varric takes hold of your wrist and pulls you flush against him in one fluid motion. Dropping your stack of paper and your pencil, you find yourself in his snug embrace with your bent arms pinned between your chest and Varric’s. Your fingers comb through the thatch of curls dusted across his chest automatically -- it’s softer than you would’ve thought. Even less virtuous thoughts enter your head of their own accord, and your breath catches in your throat.

You’re pretty short for a human, and Varric manages to be just an inch shorter than that. Hesitantly, you lift your gaze from his chest to his face.

“Oops,” he says huskily, giving your middle a gentle squeeze.

“Varric, I --” But he cuts you off with a kiss. Barely a heartbeat of contact before you withdraw, looking down at him with wide, confused eyes. His eyelids flutter open as if in a daze.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbles, but the look on his face says that he isn’t sorry at all. “Been wantin’ to do that for awhile now.”

For a moment or two, he watches you, golden eyes searching yours for resistance, for anger. But you can barely _think_ let alone feel anger. Gradually, to gauge your reaction, he leans in a little, lifting his head until his mouth captures yours in another kiss -- hot and languid and slow. At first you resist -- surely this must be some kind of mistake. But he seems entirely enthused about the situation, and you slowly relax. With a sigh, you finally melt against him, your arms coming around his neck as the kiss continues on. Suddenly, his hands slide from your waist to the curve of your backside, and it barely registers -- your mind is, needless to say, _elsewhere_. When he squeezes, however, you retreat again with a sharp gasp.

Smirking, Varric flexes his fingers against your ass. “I’m not going to have to keep apologizing, am I, sweetheart?”

Slowly, you shake your head. You might just _die_ from blushing so hard, but if he stopped now, you _would_. Pulling your hips a little closer, Varric squeezes your backside again with a lecherous smile, wide fingers flexing against your flesh and nails digging into the fabric of your trousers. Unable to help yourself, a breathless moan escapes you, and Varric chuckles against your neck.

"That's my girl," he mumbles, in a that low husky voice. If he only knew what the timbre of that voice did to you. 

Slowly, he trails soft kisses down your throat, hands firmly squeezing your hips and backside as he goes. Roughly, he yanks you ever closer until your hips are flush, and something hard pokes against your thigh. Humming tunelessly, Varric tugs insistently at the hem of your tunic and vest, and who are you to deny him? Shyly, you pluck at the laces of your vest until they loosen, and he greedily pushes the fabric away. His hand moves to cup a breast through your tunic and breast band. A soft noise of appreciation escapes him when you shiver.

“Bed, _now,_ ” you gasp, and he chuckles roughly against your neck. Your legs feel like they might buckle beneath you, and _still_ he teases. When his mouth sucks lightly on your shoulder, you have to grab onto him to keep from collapsing. “ _Please,_ Varric.” You _hate_ how fucking pathetic you sound, but your legs are shaking from the exertion of remaining vertical.

At long last, he takes pity on you. Indeed, this dangerous little game seems to be wearing thin on him, too. Impatiently, Varric guides you to the bed tucked in the corner. In a frenzied tangle of limbs, the two of you fall upon the mattress, with Varric landing somewhere between your thighs. The hard prod of his arousal against your leg is a not-so-gentle reminder to you both that he’s also practically _mad_ with desire. Growing bolder, your hands seek out that hardness, cupping him gingerly through his breeches. The effect on him is _immediate_ and involuntary.

With a rough grunt, his hips buck against your hand, and a small amount of restraint in his eyes withers away. Biting your lower lip, eyes trained on his face, you squeeze him firmly, and a ragged gasp wrenches from his throat.

Suddenly his fingers hook themselves on the waistband of your trousers, and Varric gives them an almighty yank, practically pulling you off the bed in his haste to have you unclothed. Carelessly, he tosses them to the floor and looks down at you with a hungry gleam to his eye. Instinctively, you yank down the hem of your loose tunic and scrunch yourself into a ball in an attempt to cover your naked thighs and hips. _Maker, what he must think of me!_ Everything about you is too large and round and _imperfect_ \-- he deserves better. And truly, he could have anyone… what on _earth_ would he want with you?

“Uh uh,” reprimands Varric quietly, taking hold of your wrists and pinning them to the mattress alongside your hips. Flashing you a reproachful look, Varric brings his face level with mine. “I want to see and feel _all_ of you, sweet girl,” he murmurs, and dips his head to capture your lips in a kiss. Gently, he brings your wrists around his neck, leaving his hands free to explore. And _explore_ they do.

With all the reverence of a Chantry brother at the pulpit, Varric’s wide palms skate down your curves, squeezing, dragging, clutching at every bit of skin he can reach. His clever fingers again slip beneath your tunic as the kiss continues on, quickly finding the laces that hold the breast band fabric together. Withdrawing a hairsbreadth to meet your gaze, Varric hesitates, fingers toying with the bits of string, and waits patiently for your permission.

Still blushing, you bite your lower lip and give the tiniest of nods. Leaning forward, he kisses you again, invading your mouth with a warm tongue that tastes of pipe elfroot and expensive whiskey. Thoroughly distracting you with his kiss, Varric’s clever fingers deftly untie the laces of your breast band. A shiver ripples through you as the material falls away. With a rough groan in your ear, Varric massages a breast until you writhe, gasping for breath. Callused fingers graze against a perked nipple and you bite his neck to smother your moans.

“Don’t hold back, sweetheart,” whispers Varric huskily, and he presses a kiss to your collarbone. Rucking up the hem of your tunic, he exposes your breasts to the warm night air and to his greedy hands. Reflexively, you attempt to cover yourself with your arms, but Varric will have none of it. Grasping your wrists in a gentle but firm grip, he trails kisses down your torso, pausing to flick his silver tongue across each nipple until you writhe. _Maker, what he does to you!_ After a moment of meandering kisses down past your bellybutton, you become suddenly aware of where he is heading.

“Nnngh, _Varric…_ ” you whine pitifully, embarrassed beyond words as he pauses just above the waistband of your smalls and looks up. “Don’t… it’s… I-I’m not…”

“Hush, sweetness,” mumbles Varric reverently, interrupting your half-hearted objections as he tugs the cloth down from your hips slowly. “Let _me_ decide how beautiful you are,” he says, nudging apart your thighs with such firm tenderness that you can’t resist.

Face flushed red hot, eyes closed tightly as embarrassment crawls sickly hot through your chest, you allow him to nudge apart your thighs. Oh, Maker, you want to _die_. Surely he’ll see all the imperfections of your skin, a battlefield of scars and stretchmarks, and make some excuse. You bury your face in the crook of your arm, pretending that you are utterly invisible, and wait for him to sit up with a grimace.

But he doesn’t.

With a few mumbled words of praise, Varric leans forward, thick arms coiling around your hips, his tongue swiping slow and hot and _perfect_ , and he watches with those tawny eyes as you come unraveled by his talented mouth. Higher and higher he winds you, unapologetic, unrepentant, unrelenting, until you are a writhing, trembling mess upon the sheets. The seconds bleed into several minutes of exquisite torment, and he releases pleased groans into your flesh with every jerky cry torn from your lips. You never thought you would ever experience this, especially from someone who’s so fucking _good at it_. When he’s lapped up all you have to offer and you’re breathless and boneless on the sheets, he crawls up the length of your body, coming to a stop with his hips nestled between your thighs. Again, the stiff reminder presses against your leg.

“I’m pretty good with my tongue,” he whispers, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, and Maker curse him, you can _hear_ the arrogant smile to his voice. A breathless little laugh escapes you, and he leans down, lips claiming yours in a scorching kiss, transforming your nervous laughter into a moan. You taste yourself on his tongue, and your fingers wind through his loose hair, clinging to the soft strands like a lifeline.

His lips linger against yours, moving ceaselessly, tasting of whiskey and elfroot, as his wide palm skates down the length of your body. Hooking his fingers behind your knee and drawing your thighs around his hips, Varric _grrriiinds_ himself against you with a half-grunted sigh. The stiff head of his cock, still trapped in his trousers, pokes your inner thigh, and a breathless moan escapes you.

“Mm, that’s my sweet girl,” groans Varric into your ear, a stilted chuckle bubbling forth as you whimper helplessly beneath him, desperate for him to quench these flames.

“Please,” you beg, hands seeking the laces of his trousers to free him, to end this torment, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck, making no move to stop you. You are on fire, set ablaze by his very touch, drunk on his close proximity. Shyness long forgotten, you wrench loose the laces of his trousers and delve a hand inside to discover the lack of smallclothes beneath. Almost as if he was _prepared_ for this moment somehow. When your fingers brush against his stiff, trapped arousal, he smothers a groan against your collarbone.

Impatient now, you shove the fabric down from his hips and his cock bobs free, precum beaded almost perfectly on the very tip. Your fingers close around the shaft, he shivers in delight, and you manage to give him one, two, three loose strokes before he can take no more. He sits back on his heels, takes his dripping cock in hand and slips the head against your slickness. An involuntary moan escapes you, and he flashes a positively _devilish_ smirk. 

_Teasing bastard._

Slowly, he pushes forward, filling you with his length. Inch by delicious inch, he eases in, teeth gritted around his groans of pleasure as he bottoms out at last. A second of hesitation, basking in the feel of each other -- the silken, molten ache in your bellies that is only growing steadily stronger. Hooking one of your legs over his shoulder, Varric quickly and easily finds his rhythm, each _agonizingly_ slow thrust fanning the flames within us both. You moan his name, desperate for more of that delicious friction.

Before long, his pace picks up, sweat beads on his brow, and the faint slap of flesh against flesh intermingles with your pants and moans. Suddenly, the entire world is balanced on the tip of a needle as the precipice rapidly approaches. Desperately, you both cling to one another, fingers digging red furrows into flesh in your fervor, blindly chasing that sweet release. When that sweet abyss finally overtakes you, it nearly knocks the wind out of you. With a wordless cry, you tense and arch against his chest, barely registering his husky murmured praise in your ear. 

One thrust, then two, and he withdraws with a deep sigh, spilling himself on your stomach. Panting, arms trembling from exertion, he hovers like that for a moment or two, forehead pressed to your neck. A fine sheen of sweat coats both your bodies, and you glisten from head to toe.

Eventually, the leg over his shoulder begins to ache, and you voice your displeasure with a pained whine. _People are not meant to bend this way!_

Chuckling, Varric gingerly lowers your leg and presses a trail of soft, sweet kisses to your throat and jaw. Rolling off to one side, Varric reaches for a cloth on the bedside table and mops his sweaty brow before turning back to you. Propping himself on one elbow, he leans over you and gently wipes away the mess on your stomach. There’s such a tenderness to his actions that you cannot help smiling. His eyes flick to you face.

“What are you smiling at?” he asks, smirking.

“You,” you reply, reaching up and toying with the thatch of hair on his chest, watching your fingers card slowly through the coarse auburn curls. Your throat constricts suddenly, painfully tight around your words. You take a deep steadying breath. “I just can’t believe you’d --”

“Hey,” he says, cutting across your words sharply, his wide, blunt fingers encircling your own and holding your palm against his heart. “I think you’re sexy as hell _,_ ” he says quietly, pressing a kiss to your forehead and cheek and jaw. “And you know I’m never wrong.”

A tiny, nervous laugh bubbles out from your lips, and your eyes flutter closed. You draw a deep breath and press your forehead to his throat, trying to calm the jumping, jittering heart in your chest. He settles onto the sheets beside you, collecting you onto his chest and tucking your head beneath his chin. His fingertips trace invisible patterns up and down your upper arm.

“Thank you,” you whisper, in a rough, raw voice. Words alone cannot express your gratitude, your love, but this will have to do. For now, until you can do better, at least.

Varric understands your inept attempt at speaking your thoughts, and presses another kiss to your forehead. “Anytime, sweetheart. Anytime.”


End file.
